


this and this and this

by mother_of_lions



Series: The Melee [3]
Category: Merlin (TV), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Song of Achilles Fusion, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_of_lions/pseuds/mother_of_lions
Summary: There is no law that the gods must be fair. And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.War and prophecy loom on the horizon, but Arthur will never leave Merlin
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: The Melee [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093841
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40
Collections: The Melee Challenge





	this and this and this

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I just wanted to use all my favorite The Song of Achilles quotes but with Merlin/Arthur.
> 
> Used the Merlin Fic Server Melee Challenge to help inspire me, and this fills my Round Three prompt, hands.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta, lovelyal, for your help!

The sunlight shining through the branches dapples his pale skin, either his parentage or the magic coursing through his veins refusing to let the sun leave its mark. Arthur aches to lean down and trace them with his tongue, but they are in view of the others, and he does not want to dampen Merlin’s reputation, Balinor’s warning still ringing in his ears.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Merlin murmurs, startling Arthur into meeting his eyes, ocean blue and piercing through to his soul. “I told you I do not care what they think. I have given them enough. They cannot have this.”

Arthur nods, unable to bring himself to speak.

Merlin reaches for him then, pulling Arthur closer and draping his slender legs across his lap. He brings their lips together for a lazy kiss.

“What will you do, if Olaf calls you to war?” Merlin asks, idly tracing patterns into Arthur’s skin. Olaf’s daughter had been kidnapped not long ago, by the young heir to Escetir, Lot. Arthur had sworn himself to avenging her years ago, when he was just a boy still living under his father’s name.

“I do not know,” he answers honestly.

“I do not think you should have to go. You are no longer a son of Pendragon.” Merlin closes his eyes, facing into the ocean breeze, his soft curls moving with the wind. “But I will go with you to Camlann, if you choose to.”

“Your mother doesn’t want you to go?” Arthur asks, surprised. Hunith wanted glory for her son, renown. It’s what she had raised Merlin to do, to fight for Daobeth and make a name for himself. It’s what Merlin wanted, too, to be recognized for his abilities.

“My father fears I will die if I go.”

The words are ice down Arthur’s spine, reminding him once more of the prophecy, of the words Balinor himself had spoken to Arthur the one time he had met the god. That Mordred will kill Merlin on the field at Camlann. Arthur had hoped it would never come to pass.

“Then I will not go,” he decides. If the choice is between Merlin and his honor, then it’s no choice at all. Merlin opens his eyes to look at Arthur, crinkling into half moons as he smiles. Arthur leans in to kiss him. He can feel Merlin’s breath hot on his face when Merlin moves, quick as lightning.

Arthur jerks back, eyes wide as he spies the snake in Merlin’s hands.

“ _Hydros_ ,” he says, a water-snake, dull gray with a blunt nose. He feels his breath quicken, evidence of how close he had come to death. Gaius had made them memorize snake colors and homes. A muddy gray, living near water. They are quick to anger with a deadly bite.

“I did not even see it,” Arthur chokes out, watching Merlin cast it aside, the neck bent backwards into the grass.

“You did not have to,” Merlin says simply. “I saw it.”

A few nights later they return from a trek through the forest to see Hunith and the court waiting for them. Beside her, standing tall and proud is the last person Arthur wants to see.

Balinor holds his arm out in greeting to his son, his presence growing as he looks on Merlin with something like pride and fear. Merlin bends to kiss his mother on the cheek and follows them inside, Arthur trailing behind, avoiding Balinor’s cold, disapproving eyes.

Distantly, he knows the minor god will do nothing in front of such an audience, not when Merlin is there to step in. However, the idea of being close enough to smell the faint, burning acrid scent of magic that permeates the air surrounding Balinor sets Arthur on edge.

The group enters the feast hall, the other boys under Hunith’s care have already taken their places, and they stand and wait for the royal entourage to arrive. Arthur hesitates for a moment, uncertain of where he should sit while Balinor is in the palace before Merlin touches his hand, quietly beckoning him to the high table where he usually sits at Merlin’s left hand.

Among the assembled guests are two more people Arthur hoped to never see again: Percival and Elyan. They, too, pledged themselves to Olaf should Vivian ever go missing, and since then they had become closely allied with Olaf. Arthur’s gut clenches, feeling the world tilt around him. They were here to take him to fight, take him to Camlann, where Merlin would follow and die.

Merlin pays their guests no mind, alternating his attention between Arthur and his parents. As the evening draws to a close, Arthur feels his chest loosen. Perhaps Elyan and Percival are here for something else entirely. He leans over to whisper to Merlin that they should make their excuses and leave, when Elyan stands.

“Queen Hunith, thank you for allowing us to dine with you this evening. We have come to spread word that Olaf is building an army to attack Escetir soon, and we ask that you consider sending your own along with us,” Elyan says. His eyes flit across the high table to rest on Merlin. “There is glory and riches to be won, and Escetir is ripe for the taking. Your son could be home within a year or two.”

Balinor clenches his jaw, and Arthur resists the urge to cover his nose, the growing smell burning his throat with every inhale. Hunith, ever polite, merely smiles and inclines her head. “I am afraid that decision will be left up to my son, and him alone. Now, if you will excuse us, there is plenty of time to discuss this tomorrow.”

She stands, her maids following along behind. Merlin props his chin on his hand, considering. “Why should I help Olaf?”

“Didn’t you hear him, boy?” Percival chimes in. “Glory for Daobeth, and for yourself as well. Ask your father, surely he understands.”

Merlin turns to look at his father and raises his eyebrows, but Balinor keeps his jaw firmly shut and merely shrugs. Percival decides to play his final card.

“Besides, Arthur will be coming with us, as he is bound by his word.”

“Arthur is no longer a Pendragon,” Merlin’s voice is edged and Arthur can almost feel the lightning that crackles under his skin, ready to explode. “He is not bound by the words of his father.”

Elyan and Percival exchange a look, but wisely don’t argue. “We’ll see you in the morning, Prince Merlin.” They bow and leave the hall.

Merlin stands without another word and leaves, Arthur rushing after him, trying to keep pace as Merlin’s lean legs stalk angrily through the halls towards their room. He can feel the power rolling off of him, a shiver racing down his spine and making the hairs on his arms stand on end despite the heat.

He slams the door open, and the sound reverberates through Arthur’s skull. He wants to reach out to Merlin, to calm him. He doesn’t like that Percival and Elyan have gotten him all worked up over a war that isn’t theirs to fight. Arthur sits on the edge of their bed, watching Merlin pace and tear his hands through his hair, working it into a frenzy.

“How dare they come here and lay claim to you,” Merlin finally grits out, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “You are _mine_. You will not go to war unless I allow it, and at this moment, I forbid it. You will not fight for Olaf’s daughter, you owe her nothing!”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees easily and holds out a hand to Merlin. He would follow Merlin anywhere, and if he intends to stay here on Daobeth then Arthur shall as well.

Merlin comes to him, anger still pulsing like a cloud around him. He straddles Arthur’s lap, draping himself over Arthur and burying his face in Arthur’s neck as Arthur strokes down his spine, working his fingers under the fabric to touch bare skin. It takes a moment, but the anger bleeds out of Merlin. His shoulders slump and his breathing slows, pressing his lips to the soft skin of Arthur’s neck. Pulling back, Merlin’s eyes are serious, jaw set. “I will go to Camlann, but you may stay, if you wish.”

“Why?” Arthur’s heart sinks at the words. He wishes, for once, that he could be angry with Merlin. “If you go, you will die.”

“They are right. It is within my power to help them, and it will bring honor for Daobeth and myself.”

“If you go, you will die,” Arthur chokes out.

“Only if Mordred kills me. I’ll stay away from him. Afterall, what has Mordred ever done to me?”

Arthur’s apprehension is assuaged, but only just. “I will go with you. If these are to be where you spend your last moments, I will be with you always.”

Merlin’s lips quirk up in a shy smile, relief flooding his blue eyes. He would not ask it of Arthur, he would never want to inconvenience him, but Merlin wanted it all the same. Surging forward, Merlin kissed him fiercely, Arthur barely keeping up with the movement of his mouth. Wrapping his arms around Merlin, he holds him tightly, trying not to think of how their days together were numbered.

They leave with Daobeth’s army a few days later, the ships filled with men and weapons and armor and the other necessities of war. Elyan and Percival are still with them, talking quietly amongst themselves as they survey the army, eyes watching Merlin as he speaks with his men and says his goodbyes to Hunith.

Balinor had refused to show up, making his disapproval at Merlin’s choice known. Merlin had told Arthur how he had gone to tell Balinor of his decision before he informed the court and how Balinor had raged on the shore, wind sending sand and water in a small tempest around him. Balinor had threatened to take Merlin far away and forbid him from joining the war, but Merlin had stood his ground. He had his honor to think of, and it was not in his nature to run from a fight.

The ships sailed from the shores of Daobeth to a smaller port on the northern edge of Albion, about halfway between Daobeth and the shores of Escetir. The army disembarked and began setting up camp, preparing to wait for the rest of the army to arrive before they would sail to Escetir together. Servants set up their tent while Merlin accompanied Percival to meet Olaf. Elyan hung back, watching the Daobethians go about their tasks.

“Would you like your own tent, Arthur?” Elyan asked, his tone polite but his eyes watchful.

“No, thank you.”

“You two are very,” he paused, picking his next word carefully. “Close. People might talk.”

Arthur felt his face flush, despite fighting it. Balinor had warned him of what would happen if Arthur was the reason Merlin was shamed. “I can sleep outside. It is of no consequence.”

“I see.” Elyan gives him a quietly calculating look, but lets the subject drop.

Arthur lingers for a moment longer before he wanders down to the shore, the damp sand sticking between his toes. Frustration washes over him like the tide over his feet, and he hates his father for taking him to offer marriage to a girl older than him, making him take the pledge. If it weren’t for Arthur they wouldn’t even be here, fighting and dying in another man’s war.

He hopes that somewhere else, in another life, Merlin and he are allowed to stay together.

Making his way back to camp, Arthur finds Merlin waiting, watching his trek up the beach with a hand shielding his eyes. He holds out his arms to Arthur as he nears, but Arthur keeps his distance, carefully avoiding the hurt that flashes across Merlin’s face. “How was your meeting?”

“Fine. Olaf is under the impression that I am here to fight for him and him alone. He wants me to make a statement to the men before we leave.”

“Are you going to?” They approach the tent and Arthur hears Balinor’s warning echo in his mind, feels Elyan’s calculating eyes watching him.

Merlin ducks into the tent, holding the flap for Arthur to follow behind him. When he doesn’t, Merlin turns to look, eyes full of questions. “Are you sleeping somewhere else?”

“Elyan said something to me earlier,” Arthur started, looking down at the sand beneath his feet, at the rocks around them, anywhere but Merlin’s face. “I don’t want to shame you.”

Merlin’s fists clench in his peripheral vision, and he takes a deliberately deep breath. “Who said this to you?”

“Does it matter?” Arthur glances up from under his lashes to see the irritation tensing every part of Merlin’s body. “I can just sleep outside, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“No.” Merlin’s hard tone makes Arthur look up completely. “The Daobethian’s will not care. The others can talk all they like. They are fools if they let my glory live and die by this. I will still be Emrys.” Emrys, the immortal. If only it were so.

He follows Merlin inside the tent.

Arthur wakes to lips trailing up his stomach, and he cracks an eye to find Merlin, his head bent to his task of marking Arthur’s skin with his teeth. The heat has been oppressive the last few days as they wait for the final army to arrive, and their skin remains perpetually damp, but Arthur pushes it aside to focus on the scrape of Merlin’s teeth, the wet slide of his tongue soothing over the reddening marks.

Moaning softly to let Merlin know he is awake, he tangles his fingers in Merlin’s dark hair and pulls, drawing him up to kiss. Their lips slide against one another, languid and slow. Merlin’s finger’s wrap around his hardening cock, his touch light as he takes his time bringing Arthur to completion. It’s far too hot to think of doing anything more, the mattress damp with their sweat.

They exit the tent under the midday sun, joining the men gathering around Olaf and his generals. The soldiers grow impatient, restless, like dogs ready for a hunt. Merlin steps forwards, declaring, “This is the fault of the gods! You have angered them.”

A muscle in Olaf’s jaw ticks. “It could not have been me that angered them.”

“My father is a god, you remember. He told me himself.”

Olaf closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before asking, “And what would he have me do?”

“You must make a sacrifice,” Merlin tells him. “Your best bulls and a ship, then they will be appeased and release the wind once more.”

“Fine. Tonight, we will do the ceremony,” Olaf grits out, dismissing the men.

That night, Olaf lights his best ship on fire himself, the wails of the bulls can still be heard as they bleed. Almost immediately a cool breeze blows over the island, and the men sigh in relief.

The last army, led by the daughter of Rodor, shows up the next morning, apologies for her late arrival spilling from her lips as she explains the lack of wind and waters that would not allow their oars to penetrate. Olaf dismisses her apologies, eager to get to Escetir and rescue his own daughter.

They arrive on the Escetirian shores a handful of weeks later, and Percival directs them to set up the Daobethian camp at the end of the beach, away from the main body of the army. Arthur is confused for a moment, but understands quickly as it allows them a quieter area, privacy from the prying eyes of the other Avalonians.

In their own tent that night, Merlin watches him with pensive eyes, fingers nervously toying with his cup.

“What is it?”

“Will you think differently of me tomorrow?” He sounds small, nothing like the bright and lively boy that Arthur knows.

“Why would I think differently of you?”

“All of this.” Merlin gestures broadly. “The lives I will take. This was always more your gift than mine. They only want me for the magic.”

“There is nothing you could do that would change how I think of you,” Arthur says seriously. “I know why we are here, and I know that this is something you wouldn’t do otherwise. But I will be with you, Merlin. Always.”

He gives Arthur a small smile, eyes crinkling at the edges. It is hard to believe that this army of Avalonians believe that a boy of 16 will be their savior, that it is Merlin, of all people.

Arthur edges around the fire in their tent to press his side against Merlin’s. “Your hair never quite lies flat, here.” Merlin’s hair is soft under his fingertips. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I like it.”

He ducks his head but fails to hide his flush. “You haven’t.”

“I should have.” Arthur trails his fingers down Merlin’s throat, feeling him swallow nervously. He stops at the base, drawing across the vee and feeling the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?”

A breathless “No.”

“This, surely then.” He draws his hand across the muscles of Merlin’s chest, his sun-darkened skin a stark contrast against Merlin. “Have I told you of this?”

“That you have told me.” Merlin’s heart beats quicker.

“And what of this?” He lets his hand linger over Merlin’s hips, drawing down the line of his thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”

“You have.”

“And this? Surely I would not have forgotten this.” Arthur smiles like a cat toying with its prey as Merlin’s flush extends down his chest. He can feel him stirring against his hand. “Tell me I did not.”

“You did not,” he gets out, voice uneven.

“There is this, too.” Arthur’s hands cannot stop moving, roving over every inch of Merlin that he can reach. “I know I have told you of this.”

Merlin throws his head back with a moan and Arthur leans in, closing his lips around the smooth skin and working his teeth against the skin. “Tell me again.”

The following morning dawns bright and warm, and Arthur lingers as he helps Merlin into his armor. There are others for this, he knows, but part of him wants to savor every moment he has left. They are here now, off to war, and his days with Merlin are fleeting, running through his fingers like sand.

Merlin returns the favor, and Arthur can hear him whispering enchantments over his armor. It is useless, Arthur thinks. He did not plan to remain in this world after Merlin was gone.

Doing up the last buckle, Merlin straightens, giving Arthur a nod. He looks as grim as Arthur feels. They turn to leave, but Arthur stops him with a hand on his arm. “Remember, Mordred.”

Merlin half grins. “Who says I have to face him today? After all, what has Mordred ever done to me?”

The first battle is bloody. Arthur sees Merlin everywhere, waves of his magic rolling across the field and knocking Escetirian soldiers to the ground for the soldiers to dispatch. Arthur stays close, his sword finding the bodies of those who would come to claim Merlin’s head as a prize. Should Mordred come for him, Arthur will be the first to step in the way.

As it happens, Mordred seems perfectly content to stay on the other side of the field, far out of Merlin’s reach. Perhaps, Arthur muses to himself, he knows of the prophecy as well, and fears his own death. When the other soldiers ask why Merlin has not yet confronted Mordred, he merely laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners and asks them, “Why should I be the one to kill him? What has Mordred ever done to me?”

The months pass quickly, each battle bleeding into the next. The Escetirians are good soldiers, Arthur admits, but the Avalonians are better. If they didn’t have walls to hide behind, the war would be nearing its end.

They are in the midst of another battle when the spear strikes him like a snake, quick and deadly. Arthur feels it push through his armor, piercing into him white hot. The sand beneath his knees burns through the greaves, and the sounds of battle fade around him.

There are hands on his shoulders, turning his body over, fluttering along the newly made wound. “Merlin,” he whispers.

Arthur could recognize him by touch alone, by smell. Arthur would know him blind, by the way he breathes and his feet strike the earth. Even in death, Arthur would know Merlin.

Merlin lifts him easily, cradling Arthur to his chest as they leave the battlefield. Soldiers part like fish around a shark, none daring to engage him now. Arthur lets himself be lulled into darkness, feeling the pain leave his side the longer he is pressed again Merlin.

Arthur wakes days later, his throbbing side bound tightly. Pushing himself onto his elbows, Arthur recognizes the tent he shares with Merlin, but he is alone. A pitcher and cup rest beside the bed, and he manages to pour himself enough to drink, water spilling over the sides and down his chest as he struggles with this simple task.

This is how Merlin finds him, trembling as he attempts to pour himself another cup. Rushing forward, Merlin takes the pitcher and pours Arthur a cup, helping him to drink it.

“Arthur,” he breathes at last, as if he is getting over the shock of seeing him awake. “I feared you would die.”

Cracking a smile, Arthur reassures him. “There is nowhere I would go without you, Merlin. Not even death could take me.”

Merlin snorts and leans down to kiss him, hands roving over Arthur’s chest and skimming the edges of his bandages, reaffirming that Arthur is still in front of him. “You won’t be able to return to battle for a while, Arthur. Not until your wound is completely healed.”

“I can’t leave you unprotected!” Arthur protests, struggling to push himself up again. “Let me go with you, I have to watch your back.”

“No, Arthur.” Merlin’s voice is hard and uncompromising. “Do not make me tie you to this bed.”

Arthur sighs, but stops struggling, flopping down onto the bed petulantly. Merlin sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair and stepping closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. Placing his hand on Arthur’s thigh, he runs his hand over the blanket absentmindedly. “Name one a hero who was happy,” he asks.

Closing his eyes, Arthur thinks through the heroes that decorate their stories. None of them have happy endings. “You can’t,” Merlin says, his gaze focused on Arthur, leaning forward.

“I can’t.”

“I know. They never let you be famous _and_ happy.” He lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

Arthur loves when he is like this. “Tell me.”

“I’m going to be the first.” He takes Arthur’s palm, holding it against his own and threading their fingers together. “Swear it.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the reason. Swear it.”

“I swear it,” Arthur breathes, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.

“I swear it,” Merlin echoes.

They sit there for a moment longer, palms touching. A manic grin spreads across his face, the fire dancing in his eyes. “I feel like I could eat the world raw.”

Arthur feels a pang in his chest as he remembers Balinor’s words, that Merlin will not leave the shores of Escetir. He decides not to bring it up again, preferring to keep Merlin light and happy. Merlin leans down the rest of the way, covering Arthur’s face in kisses, peppering them across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks.

Later, Merlin sleeps beside him, an arm flung protectively over Arthur’s stomach. He looks younger in sleep, Arthur thinks. The weight of war erased from his young face. It will be this, always, Arthur thinks. For as long as Merlin will let him. Until Mordred takes Merlin from him.

Merlin returns to battle the next day, Arthur watching from the edge of the camp as he leaves with the Daobethians. Elyan appears beside him, leaning heavily on a makeshift crutch. “He is a good soldier.”

“That is not all he is,” Arthur says, ice lining his voice.

Elyan chuckles. “You care for him a great deal, and he you. But you must remember something, Arthur. He is a weapon, a killer. You may use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

Arthur turns to look at him then, protest dying on his lips. But it is true, isn’t it? Merlin is a killer, has killed, will kill. Elyan merely smiles at him, sadness lurking in his deep brown eyes. “We are grateful to have him. And you, too.”

With nothing left to say, Arthur returns to camp and makes himself useful.

Almost ten years have passed when Merlin breaks. He storms back to camp, throwing his helmet into the sand and forcing his hands through sweat tangled hair as he paces in the sand.

“Olaf is a fool! He refuses to listen to anyone, using good men, my men, as bait to draw the Escetirians from behind their walls. I will no longer fight for a man who cannot see sense!” He spits at his own generals. “We will not fight until he apologizes and sees reason. I will not waste lives for nothing.”

The Daobethian generals signify their agreement and acceptance, filtering back out to the camp to spread the news. Arthur waits for Merlin at the mouth of their own tent, arms crossed across his chest. “Will he really not listen?”

“He talks over anyone who tries to speak up. Percival, Elyan, Mithian, even Annis. I have let him lead this war without challenge, but no more.” He sighs in defeat, the fight leaving him. Sitting down heavily, Merlin drops his face into his hands. “So many have died, Arthur, and for what? This was supposed to be a few years, but we have been here a decade.”

Arthur pulls him up and begins unbuckling his armor. “If this is what you think is best, then we will do it.”

The next day the camp is buzzing with restless energy, watching the other armies trudge across the desert to the walls of Escetir once more. Merlin watches from the edge of their camp, jaw clenched and arms crossed. Arthur returns to camp and goes about his normal tasks. Merlin joins him later, hovering on the fringes, unsure of himself.

Arthur assigns him a few simple tasks, which he completes before finding his way to the medical tent and visiting with the wounded there. He doesn’t leave until the sun has begun to set, but he looks lighter, happier than he had that morning. Merlin tells him about healing some of the men that night, curled up in the circle of Arthur’s arms.

Things go on in this way for several weeks, but the Daobethians remain on edge. As night begins to draw in, Elyan appears at their tent, begging for an audience. Merlin permits it, watching Elyan with guarded eyes.

He gets to the point immediately. “Please return to the war, Merlin. We are dying without you and the Daobethians.”

“Has Olaf grown to listen to reason?”

Elyan sighs, looking to Arthur for help. “You know he won’t, but this isn’t about him. It’s about the rest of the Avalonians. We need you, Merlin, or we will all die. Do you want to face the Escetirians on your own?”

“I could have ended this war years ago if Olaf would simply listen!” Merlin snarls, eyes flashing gold as the wind picks up, the threat inherent.

Raising his hands in surrender, Elyan inclines his head. “As you wish.” He shoots Arthur a frustrated look as he leaves, heading back to his camp.

Arthur follows him out, calling for him to wait. “Is it really that bad?”

“We won’t last the year at this rate,” Elyan confesses. “I know he is upset about Olaf, we all are, but we’re all here now. We have to finish this.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Arthur promises. Elyan thanks him and leaves before Olaf gets word of his absence.

Arthur reenters the tent and sits beside Merlin. “You really won’t fight?”

“No.”

“Well, what if I go in your place?” Arthur suggests. “It won’t be you, your honor remains. But it will rally the people, give them hope. I will lead the Daobethians in your armor, and no one has to know it isn’t you.”

Merlin furrows his brow. “I don’t want you going, either. What if something happens?”

“Then I’ll ride in the chariot. Leon will not let me fall, and no one will be able to touch me,” Arthur says, the plan unfolding in his mind. “Come on, the sooner this ends the sooner we can go home.”

He deliberates for another moment. “You’ll stay in the chariot?”

“I swear it.”

“Fine. But just this once. You will not go again,” Merlin says, definitive.

Arthur nods, “I won’t. Tell the men to prepare for battle.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but stands and ducks out of the tent. He returns and pulls Arthur into bed, pressing him into the sheets, lavishing Arthur with gentle touches. “They do not deserve you.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur whispers back. “But I do not deserve you.”

“Promise me you will return tomorrow?” He asks, eyes wide in the moonlight.

“I will always return to you.”

Burying his face in Arthur’s neck, they tangle together, and Arthur can no longer tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

In the morning, Merlin helps Arthur into his armor, taking his time and double checking every strap and buckle. “You remember what you promised?”

“I do.”

Merlin kisses him a final time, lingering as long as he is able. He walks Arthur to the chariot, helping him step inside. There was more to say, but for once they did not say it. There would be other times for speaking tonight and tomorrow, and all the days after that. Merlin let go of his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur steadied himself against the wall of the chariot, fingers gripping Merlin’s spear. The Daobethians cheered as they burst onto the battlefield, and the collective relief of the Avalonians was almost tangible. His appearance bolstered the army, and they fought with renewed vigor. Cries went up from the men, “Emrys has returned! Emrys fights for Avalon!”

Arthur raised his spear at the cheers, pride swelling. This is what Merlin must feel every day, he thinks. No wonder he was so insulted.

Leon keeps the chariot moving, never letting it rest for long. A distance away, Arthur sees Mordred. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he says, “Take me over there!”

“Merlin said to stay away from him!” Leon protests, shaking his head.

“Then I’ll get out and walk,” Arthur counters. Leon grits his teeth but does as he is asked. Turning the chariot, he races towards Mordred. Raising his spear, Arthur keeps his eyes on Mordred’s shoulders and throws, watching it sail through the air. It would have been a direct hit, if a wave of magic had not knocked it off course.

Mordred looks up and meets his eyes over the throng of men fighting. Flicking his hand carelessly, Mordred knocks Arthur from the chariot. He lands on his face, spitting out sand and turning over and grappling for a weapon to defend himself with. Mordred is on him before he gets his fingers around Merlin’s sword, looming over Arthur and raising his spear. It falls swiftly, a streak of silver in the sun.

As the spear pierces his armor, his hands flutter uselessly, as if it will stop the pain. Head flopping back onto the sand, the last thing Arthur sees is Mordred leaning over him, twisting the spear as one would stir a pot.

The last thing Arthur thinks is _Merlin_.

Merlin stands on the ridge watching the battle. He cannot make out who is who, but the Avalonians are routing the Escetirians, just as Arthur had said. Soon he will return to him, and Olaf will kneel. They will all be happy again.

But something is off, there is a numbness inside him, slowly turning him to stone. A knot forms in the pit of his stomach. A king has fallen, or a prince, and they are fighting for the body. He shades his eyes with a hand, but he still cannot see. Arthur will tell him.

Merlin sees it in pieces. Men come down the beach, Elyan limping beside the other kings. Percival holds something in his arms, a grass stained foot hangs loose. Locks of tousled blond hair have slipped from under the shroud, and the numbness now is merciful, while it lasts.

He reaches for his sword to slash at his throat, only to remember he had given it to Arthur when his hand comes up empty. Leon seizes his wrists, and everyone is talking at once. All Merlin can see is the bloodstained cloth, and with an inhuman scream he falls to his knees, draping himself over the body. The knowledge chokes him, overwhelms him. Merlin yanks at his hair, pulling it from his head and it falls to cover the bloody corpse.

Arthur, he says. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Elyan is kneeling, urging him to eat and drink, to move from the beach. A rage like Merlin has never known comes over him, and he almost kills them all, but he would have to release Arthur to do so and he cannot. He holds Arthur so tightly that Arthur can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a butterfly. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.

When he is able, he finally asks, “Who did this?” His voice is terrible, cracked and broken. There is nothing left of him now.

“Mordred,” Elyan says. Merlin stands, and it takes Percival and Leon together to hold him.

“Tomorrow,” they say. “He has already returned to the city. Tomorrow, Merlin, and you can kill him. I swear it. Now you have to eat and rest.”

Merlin weeps. He cradles Arthur, and refused to eat, nor speak any word that is not his beloved’s name. Arthur can see his face as if through water, as a fish sees the sun. Merlin’s tears fall, but Arthur cannot wipe them away. This is his element now, the half-life of the unburied.

His father comes, Arthur hears him. Waves break on the shore. He disgusted the god when he was alive, and the sight of his corpse in his son’s arms is far worse.

“He is dead,” Balinor says, voice flat.

“Mordred is dead,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

“You have no armor.”

“I do not need it,” he bares his teeth. It is an effort to speak.

Balinor curls his lip, reaching to remove Merlin’s hands. “He did this to himself.”

“Do not touch me!”

He draws back, watching him cradle Arthur in his arms. “I will bring you armor.”

Olaf comes, at last. His apology is stilted and uttered quickly. “It is time to forget the division between us. A god must have snatched our wits from us to put us at such odds. But it is over now, Emrys, and we are allies once more.”

Merlin says nothing, only the image of himself killing Mordred keeps him going now.

Olaf hesitates. “Prince Merlin, I hear you will fight with us tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And you will fight after that, also?”

“If you wish.” Merlin’s voice is flat. “I do not care, I will be dead soon.”

The men watching exchange glances, but Olaf recovers quickly. “Well. We are settled then.” He turns to go, stops. “I was sorry to hear of Arthur’s death. He fought bravely today.”

Merlin’s eyes lift, bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let you all die.”

He weeps as he lifts Arthur into their bed, the corpse has begun to sag in the warmth, and the smell will come soon. He does not care, holding Arthur all night and pressing cold hands to his mouth.

In the morning, Balinor arrives, arms laden with freshly minted armor. Merlin arms himself, but refuses to speak. Only the thought that he will soon join Arthur keeps him going.

He doesn’t wait for the rest of the Daobethians. He runs down the beach past the rest of the army, who follow after him. They do not want to miss this.

“Mordred!” Merlin screams. “Mordred!” He sends wave after wave of magic through the Escetirians, shattering bones and shields. The beach soon fills with bodies, twisted at odd angles.

Mordred, wisely, alludes him. He has donned the armor Arthur last wore into battle, looking more like Merlin than Arthur ever had. Mordred races towards a wide river at the far side of the field, leaping across to the other side and narrowly avoiding Merlin’s spear tip.

Merlin leaps the river to chase after him, the god within keeping to himself for once. He gives chase to Mordred, who runs to a sacred copse of trees. Here, he stops and turns to face Merlin. He raises his hands, and Arthur wants to call out to him. To stop him. With this death, Merlin will seal his own.

Mordred’s eyes are wide, his chest heaving, but he holds his ground. “Grant me this,” he pleads. “Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.”

Merlin makes a choking sound. “There are no bargains between dragons and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.” The magic flows freely, and the snap of Mordred’s neck is loud in the silence.

He returns to the tent, where Arthur’s body still rests. He drags Mordred’s body behind him, pierced through the heels and tied. The face is nearly unrecognizable, matted with black and bloody dust from dragging it behind his chariot.

The other Avalonian kings are waiting for him.

“You have triumphed today, Merlin,” Olaf says. “Bathe and rest and then we shall feast in your honor.”

“I will have no feast.” He pushes past them, dragging Mordred behind.

For the first time since Arthur’s death, Merlin sleeps. He trembles and twitches, tosses and turns, but it is sleep.

_Merlin, I cannot bear to see you grieving._

His limbs twitch.

_Give us both peace. Burn and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will–_

But he is already waking. “Arthur! Wait, I am here!” He shakes the body beside him, but Arthur does not answer. He weeps again.

The following night, the king of Escetir comes to beg for his son’s body. In a moment of clarity, Merlin comes back to his senses, and grants his request. When he and Mordred have gone, he slumps next to Arthur’s body, face buried in his belly. The skin grows slick as his tears fall freely once more.

In the morning, he carries Arthur to the pyre and lights it with a whispered word. Arthur can feel the flames surround him, and he slips even further from life, thinning to the faintest shiver in the air.

Merlin collects Arthur’s ashes himself, placing them in a golden urn. Turning to the watching Daobethians he says, “When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”

Over the following weeks, Merlin kills and kills and kills. Blood coats his hands, but still he does not die. He stops wearing armor to battle, stops using even his magic.

From the walls of Escetir, a bow is strung by rushing hands. An arrow selected, and a marksman takes aim. It is a service to put Merlin out of his misery now. A dragon grown wounded and sick, Avalonians and Escetirians alike give him a wide berth.

The arrow is loosed, flying silently across the field to bury itself in Merlin’s back. As if he hears it, Merlin turns his head to watch, closing his eyes as the point pushes through his skin and past his ribs, embedding in his heart. Blood spills, hot and slick, down his back and Merlin smiles as he collapses.

Merlin’s body is mourned and burned, his ashes gathered and buried. Weeks, months pass, and yet Arthur is not reunited with Merlin. He grows desperate, haunting the dreams of those who are responsible.

A young soldier, a boy, really, the last survivor of those charged by Merlin to mingle their ashes, manages to complete his task.

And finally, finally, Arthur goes. He finds Merlin waiting on the far shore, refusing to venture farther without Arthur. He lights up when he sees him cross the river, and their hands meet, light spilling in a flood.

They are together, and nothing else matters.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr here](https://the-mother-of-lions.tumblr.com/) and you can join the [Merlin Fic Server](https://discord.gg/zcfTDsT) if you'd like to participate in the next Melee challenge!  
> Thank you for reading!


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